


phantom force

by scandalous



Series: Dick or Treat 2019 [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Crying, F/M, Ghost Sex, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 07:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalous/pseuds/scandalous
Summary: Amber is there.





	phantom force

**Author's Note:**

> I Love Suffering
> 
> enjoy!

“I didn't want to leave, either.”

Wilson jumps and stumbles upon a bunch of boxes, falling to the floor with a loud thump. In front of him— he blinks and rubs his eyes. He's gotten a decent amount of sleep, this can't be happening. He hasn't done anything stupid to cope with his loss, apart from the overpowering need to move and change location. To leave House behind.

“You're not hallucinating,” Amber says.

He sucks in a breath and stands up. He looks around the room, for a sign of a camera, for a sign of House anywhere in his place. They've barely talked ever since she died and he almost died too, but he expects it. He expects the mocking laugh, the “you really believe in ghosts?”

“House!” he yells.

“Wilson,” she insists, pulling herself closer to him. She's just more pale than when she was alive, more… tired. There's some lines around her body, maybe a signifier of the fact she's not alive. “He's not here. Promise. I checked.”

Wilson shakes his head. “You can't…” He tries to touch her, and he can feel her hair and her skin, but at the same time his fingers slip right through them. She's still there, but oh, she's not exactly there, either. It makes his brain hurt, makes him question himself, his sanity. There's no way ghosts exist, there's no way ghosts are real and that his dead girlfriend's is there to haunt him.

“Amber…” he breathes nonetheless, like accepting the same overwhelming grief again. She's there and hee can't touch, she's there and he can't quite touch. He can't touch like back then, can't kiss her madly, can't fiddle with her clothes, have her help him undress.

“I miss you too,” she says.

He breaks down in tears, trying to hold onto her as he sobs. Amber just looks at him, with such a hopeless look that he believes she must not be able to cry in such state of being, because she sure looks like she wants to.

“I love you,” she tells him, putting a hand on his cheek. It doesn't slip right through like his on hers, but it's quite freezing cold. He doesn't recoil, he's used to the feeling.

“I love you too,” he says, his mouth dry and his eyes wet, tears still rollint down his cheeks. He's exhausted, and all he can resolve to do is go to his bedroom.

Amber doesn't curl up right next to him like usual. Maybe because she's too cold for him to be able to sleep while holding her.

A part of him wants to blame House. He's always wanted to blame House, and sure, if he hadn't insisted to ride the bus none of this would've happened, but it's not like House  _ knew _ the crash would've happened. It's not like he  _ knew _ Amber was taking medication— it's not like he  _ knew _ she'd destroy her liver during the crash.

House isn’t guilty.

Sometimes there’s no clear winners. Sometimes there's no clear losers. Sometimes there's no clear culprit.

“Good night,” Amber tells him. 

* * *

Amber touches him.

It starts meaningful and sacred, of course, because there's no book on coping that has got this situation down. But he doubts that having sex with the person you're grieving's ghost is an appropiate coping mechanism.

Still, he's never claimed to be healthy.

Amber's kisses to his neck are icy and deadly, and he lets her do whatever she wants. He tilts his head back and whimpers, closes his eyes and lets the coldness spread down and up.

“Can I touch…?” Amber starts, her hand fiddling with his boxers.

He draws in a breath. “Yeah.”

He's never claimed to be healthy, much less when Amber starts touching. She wraps her hand around his length, strokes him slowly.

“I'll—” he breathes hard and rubs her through her panties, making sure to not slip right through. He can touch her like she's not a ghost, sometimes, if he really focuses on it.

She speeds up a little and her kiss goes to his lips. Cold, unforgiving— he whimpers right into her mouth, and as she speeds up, he can't help but start crying.

Amber shushes him gently, keeps jerking him off. “You’re okay,” she tells him, with that gentleness so unlike her, that gentleness she’s kept up ever since he found her. “Everything is okay, James.”

He knows it's not. He's aware he's not fine, he's aware nothing is okay. He knows nothing will ever quite be the same, and he knows everything will still make him think of her, years down the line. Cameron's told her that much.

Amber simply continues, through his sobs and nods, urging her to keep going. A hand on the small of his back, or on his hip, or on his chest.

The touch is holy and freezing, and she touches, she makes him into a shaking mess. It seeps right into him, the cold, makes him want to curl up and cry like he's done oh so many times the last few months.

“I love you,” Amber tells him, touching, still touching. Cold and freezing and sacred and awful. “I love you so much, baby.”

He hiccups, hips bucking up into her hand. “I love you too,” he tries, a hand trying to dig at her shoulder, tries to get some support. It slips right through her arm, and he shakes his head a little. It’s useless to pretend she’s still alive, every part of her reminding him she’s not.

He keeps crying, even as he comes, even as climax overpowers him and quiets down his sobs.

She starts kissing away his tears, pulls away from his softening cock, presses her lips against his jaw.

He's terribly cold. Maybe he's getting hypothermia. He briefly considers dying in the arms of his dead girlfriend’s ghost.

Another thought crosses his mind— he wishes he had a last time with Amber. A last time he knew was a last time. 


End file.
